Aléjate
by viva los angeles
Summary: With only a few moments left before his flight, Henry helps Betty come to a very important realization. GxB.


**A/N: OMG IT'S ANOTHER ONE WHEN WILL I EVER STOP WRITING?**

**This is probably the last one for at least a week. I have to study again.**

**This story is sort of a "midquel" that takes place about halfway through "L'Ultima Notte" as Betty's point-of-view when Henry up-and-leaves. This is supposed to explain away some of the "suddenness" of the end of that story.**

**I'm keeping with the Josh Groban theme; however, since Betty's Mexican, I've got a very fitting Spanish title for you here.**

--

_Aléjate_

--

They sit in silence on the steps, loosely holding hands. The dark Tahoe she knows so well is parked just yards before her, leather seats reflecting the streetlamps' light. She inhales the smallest breath, her gaze settling on a leaf dancing down the sidewalk.

"Do you really have to go?"

He laughs, but it's a quiet, heavy sound. "Yes."

Betty sighs.

"I wish it didn't have to end this way." He tries to put an arm around her but she shrugs him off, hugging herself instead. "Stop."

"I'm sorry," he whispers, the words just barely reaching her ears.

"I know." She sighs and her breath rolls over her knees. "I know you are. You tell me every day. Every night. Every morning. I know you're sorry."

"I would stop it if I could."

She turns to him, her brows furrowed in frustration. "You could have. You could have done the right thing and been more careful."

He shakes his head. "We were as careful as we could have possibly been."

"Maybe the right answer was not sleeping with her. Maybe we shouldn't have, either."

And suddenly the topic of so many days—and the activity of so many nights—forces an awkwardness over both of them akin to that of teenagers in health class.

He removes his glasses and rubs his forehead. "Maybe you're right."

"Oh," she sighs again. "Oh, I should have learned from Hilda. That things like this can happen. You'd think I'd learned my lesson… but I really haven't."

He checks his watch, a subtle motion not unnoticed by his companion. "I need to go soon," he says, and she nods.

"I understand. You made a commitment."

He shifts his position and as he does a small box falls from his pocket. Before he can scoop it up and replace it, she grabs it. Bits of dried leaves stick to the velvet and she pops the box open easily; a gasp escapes her mouth before she reins it back in. The ring sits still, glittering even in the absence of sufficient light.

"Oh my God," she whispers. "This is for Charlie, isn't it." It's a statement, not a question. "You're going to marry her."

"I have to," he responds. "It's my duty."

"So valiant," she smiles slightly. "Such a good man."

"Gio's a good man too," he replies, seemingly out of nowhere.

"What?"

"He's a good guy."

She shakes her head. "Where did this come from?"

"I talked to him. Earlier today. Showed him the ring—I needed him to be there for you. I couldn't just leave you here alone." He takes the box from her hand and snaps it closed, sliding it past the warm satin lining of his pocket.

"Why Gio?" she asks.

He shakes his head. "Giovanni Rossi is a very good guy. And I _know_ you know that. I know how you feel about him."

"I don't feel_anything_ for him," she scoffs, and her vocal irregularities give away the meaning cowering under the words.

Putting his hands on her shoulders, he looks into her eyes. "Betty, I need to know that when I leave, I'm leaving you in the best hands possible. And Gio is those hands. He loves you, Betty—it's just, well, it's just something I know, to tell you the truth. He looks at you like I do… and you look at him the same way, when I'm not there."

She looks down sheepishly, her face flushing at the words. "Were you going to tell me this if the box hadn't fallen out?"

"No," he replies heavily. "I wasn't going to. But I'm glad I have, because it's important for you to know this. I talked to him today."

"Did you?"

"I had to make sure he'd be there for you. And he will be. Betty, I'm going to say it again. _Gio loves you_. He loves you as I do. The only difference is that he's going to be here tomorrow, and I'm not."

"He gave me his phone number today so I could call him when you left and I burst into tears," she smiles despite herself as one of the aforementioned tears traces the curve of her cheek.

He pats her shoulder reassuringly. "I wish I could tell you not to cry, but no one can make that decision for you. If you're going to cry, don't cry because I'm leaving, because I think this is really for the better. I can go raise my child and marry her mother, and you can move on past this—move on with Gio at your side."

Frown lines return between her eyebrows as her wet eyes reflect the light. "You say it so easily. Like you want to leave."

A rueful chuckle. "Oh, that it were easy. Of course it won't be—we've both stolen pieces of each other's hearts—but that's not saying that it won't be _better_. I would prefer to stay here with you, but when we did… this, we knew there would be a consequence, and its time has finally come. Our decision affected people other than ourselves—more people than I would have liked. I love you, Betty Suarez, and I always will, but I have a responsibility to Charlie and the baby. And you have a responsibility to yourself."

She's been staring at the ground in silence, more tears bringing mascara down with them in black streaks on her face, but when he says this she raises her head, almost defiantly. "I guess I do, don't I." Another question-turned-statement.

He checks his watch again, and the look on his face tells her that it's almost that time. "I have to go now." Her eyes water and the tears fall faster. "I want you to let me turn that corner so you can't see me anymore, and then I want you to call Gio and tell him to come. Cry on his shoulder. Most importantly, forget I ever existed. I want you… to go into a stable relationship with him." His eyes are watering too, and as he stands she stands with him.

He puts his hands on her shoulders and smiles, then kisses her on the cheek. She weakly wipes away the streaks from her face and sits back down, watching the Tahoe disappear around the corner. Slowly she removes the napkin from her purse and dials the number. As soon as the ringing stops, she dissolves into sobs.

"Oh, _tesorina mia_."

Her heart warms instantly and even though the love of her life (or so she thought) has just driven away forever, it's not him she sees in her mind's eye.

It's the sandwiches—and the sun-dried tomatoes; he still makes her fight for them.

It's the hugs—the ones that last so long that Henry gets uncomfortable just watching, and Gio's eyes are still closed as she lets go.

It's the night she woke up on the floor of his deli and he didn't take her to court—he took her to the hospital.

But more than anything, it's the looks. Whenever she turns her head unexpectedly in his direction he's looking at her like that—like she's the most beautiful woman he's ever seen and he's already made plans to go to Montauk. And whenever he's not paying attention, she's looking at him the same way, though she never would have admitted it until today.

Until this moment.

And she knows that she has to make this work, because it _just feels right_—not right in her body, but right in her soul.

She gives him her address and her head sinks into her hands but her heart soars into the night sky.


End file.
